


Means to an End

by ODG



Category: The Professionals
Genre: Just assume all anachronisms are intentional, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-11-07
Updated: 2018-05-29
Packaged: 2018-08-29 13:22:27
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 11
Words: 18,136
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8491336
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ODG/pseuds/ODG
Summary: In which Bodie is the bad guy.





	1. In which Doyle goes undercover

Sometimes Doyle really regretted being so honest with Cowley during his interview. In theory, he understood the premise for full disclosure: you didn't want to hire anyone who could be blackmailed, so if your boss knew everything there was to know, that made you unblackmailable, right?

Of course, the downside was that your boss could use that information to get you to do things you’d really rather not do. Like now.

“We need to infiltrate some gunrunners,” Cowley had said. Fine with Doyle. He was good at undercover work. What Cowley failed to mention was that gunrunners were a tight knit bunch, so Doyle was going to have to infiltrate the group in a less traditional manner.

Bloody Cowley.

The first part of the infiltration had gone smoothly enough. His target was known to frequent The Dove and the Dog, a less than salubrious pub, so all Doyle had to do was hang around until he got picked up. “Shouldn't be a problem for someone with your talents,” said Cowley, and he said it in a way that made it sound like he was complimenting him. Doyle had nearly quit CI5 then and there. He didn't though, because, when it came down to it, sleeping with someone was a far better option than having to shoot them. He just hoped he wouldn't have to do both.

Picking his target up was no problem at all. Martell was exactly as described in his dossier. Minor public school, with a weakness for posh clothes and common men. And Doyle was precisely Martell’s type. Within a remarkably short amount of time Doyle found himself on a nearby boat, staring out at the water while Martell groped his arse.

Martell ran one finger down Doyle's face, tracing the outline of his cheekbone. “Beautiful, isn't it?” The tone of his voice suggested he wasn't talking about the river view. “Amazing to think the Vikings used to sail up here a few hundred years ago. Raid our cities...”

“Rob all the women, rape all the men...” said Doyle leaning back and looking menacing.

“If you like that sort of thing,” said Martell in a tone of voice that indicated he most decidedly did.

It turned out that when Martell said “let’s go below decks,” it wasn't a euphemism. Below decks was where Martell's “office” was, along with a small cabin filled to the brim with a large bed and packing crates suitable, Doyle thought, for guns or explosives.

Doyle lay back and thought of England.

Afterwards Doyle lay there wondering what his chances were of exploring the boat by himself. Not bloody likely, given the couple of bruisers he'd seen patrolling the decks.

“Never had it away on a boat before.”

“Really? Would have thought you'd spent all sorts of time down the docks.”

Ray gave Martell a long look, the kind that generally presaged GBH. Martell’s smile suggested he was turned on rather than afraid. “I,” said Doyle slowly, “fuck for recreation. Not for money.”

“I didn't mean to offend. But you're a talented lad. You could certainly turn professional.” There was a long pause, as Martell visibly evaluated all the potential exits from the room. “So what do you do?”

Doyle smiled at Martell to indicate that he wasn't about to kill him, although the possibility was still on the table. “I'm a stockbroker.”

Martell looked unconvinced.

“At the moment I'm between jobs. Last job didn't go quite according to plan, so I'm not working for anyone who doesn't come with references. Don't fancy a long involuntary holiday.” Couldn't get more unsubtle than that could you?

***

So. Stage one complete. The sex was no more unpleasant than any of the other times Doyle had ended up seducing someone on Cowley's orders, and it wasn't like Martell showed any interest in anything resembling a meeting of the minds. Still, Doyle wasn't there purely for Martell to get his jollies. Cowley wanted him to meet Martell’s boss, a man whose dossier was decidedly on the sparse side. What they did know was that he was a former mercenary, possibly English, and an all round bad guy. Allegedly would sell guns to anyone, including the IRA. The problem, of course, was proving it.

Three weeks in, and no progress. Given Doyle's cover as a out-of-work cracksman, he'd been making noises to Martell about possible job opportunities. Martell just kept on telling him that there were better things for him to be doing with his hands, and then tossing him a couple of tenners “for food”. Doyle looked as offended as one could while still keeping the money.

They were lying together in Martell’s flat, a small but extremely expensive three-room apartment in Chelsea. If there was any incriminating information in it, Doyle hadn't found it during his discreet investigations. He was certain there was a wall safe behind the knock-off Constable in the living room, but Martell wasn't the type to keep anything more than cash in a safe that easily located. Anything more interesting would be on the boat.

“What are you doing tonight?”

Doyle turned back to face Martell. “Dunno. Maybe see if Mar... a friend has some work for me. Why?”

Martell smiled. “A friend of mine is holding a small soirée. I thought you might find it interesting.”

***

The friend turned out to be Martell's boss and the soirée turned out to be in his flat. Most convenient, even if there was only so much sneaking around you could do during a cocktail party. The flat had a slightly sterile air to it, as if it was meant to be photographed but not lived in. The modernist furniture was elegant but uncomfortable, so as a result everyone was standing. The room was filled with men with expensive suits and interesting scars, Sloane Ranger types who were either slumming or not too fussy about the money they married, and the obligatory thugs. Doyle, in jeans, stuck out like a sore thumb. It wasn't unintentional.

Martell handed him a gin and tonic as soon as they entered, muttered that he had to talk to someone, and then vanished. Doyle tried to decide if his alter ego would object to a gin and tonic. Since no one seemed to be offering beer, he concluded that Ray Duncan wasn't that fussy. Sipping the gin and tonic, he wandered around the living room, looking at the nineteenth century prints on the wall and eavesdropping on the conversations. People seemed to be discussing their investments and the right school to send their children. If this was Martell's idea of interesting...

“And you must be Ray Duncan.”

Doyle spun around. Standing in front of him was Martell's boss, the man Cowley had sent him to meet. The blurry photograph in his dossier didn't do him justice. Short-cropped dark hair, a broad jaw, and a pair of blue eyes... Drooling over the target was not part of the plan, he reminded himself. “That's right.”

Tall, dark, and handsome raised an eyebrow. “And you don't know who I am?”

Careful, Ray. “I assume you're a friend of Marty's?”

Fleeting amusement in the blue eyes. “Something like that. Although not in the way you are. I'm Bodie.” He extended a hand. He had, Doyle noted, a very firm handshake.

“Bodie. Is that your first name or last?”

“Last.”

Doyle took a long swig of his drink as he thought about what to do next. Get Bodie talking or feign lack of interest? Something about the look in Bodie’s eyes suggested the latter.

“Nice to meet you,” he said and turned back to study the nearest print.

Right choice. “Interested in the Peninsular War?” murmured Bodie in his ear.

Doyle turned back to look at Bodie. He deliberately didn't take a half step back, although that meant they were far too close together. He wasn't going to be intimidated by this man. “Not especially. But I do like historic prints.”

“An odd interest for someone in your line of work.”

Now, what had Martell been telling him? Doyle took another drink from his glass. “I wouldn't have thought so. I see a lot of art when I'm at work.”

“Is that so?” Bodie moved infinitesimally closer. “In that case I have some etchings in my study I'd like to show you.”

It seemed like there was a crucial piece of information missing from Bodie’s dossier. Since Cowley wasn't around to pimp him out, Doyle ignored the implicit invitation. “So how do you know Marty?”

“Didn't he tell you? I'm his boss. I wanted to meet you. I was curious who was proving to be such a distraction. In our line of work distractions can be dangerous.” There was something about Bodie’s smile that made Doyle want to turn tail and run. Doyle had no difficulties recognizing an apex predator when he saw one. “And you,” Bodie reached out to touch Doyle’s hair, “strike me as someone who could be very dangerous.”

Doyle took a step back. He couldn't help himself.

“And you've finished your drink.” Bodie summoned a waiter over and handed Doyle a new one. “I wouldn't want you to think I was a poor host.”

“Not at all,” said Doyle. To his horror, he was close to stammering. What was wrong with him? He'd faced down far more dangerous men in far more dangerous situations. This was just one man at a cocktail party.

“Ah, there's Marty over there. Why don't we join him?”

Doyle felt a hand in the small of his back propel him over to the other side of the room where Martell stood with a statuesque blonde and someone who looked awfully like Ratty Hawkins, sometime drug dealer, sometime fence, and someone who was likely to make a big fuss about being in the same room as former Detective Constable Doyle.

Only one thing for it. Doyle gulped and turned to Bodie. “So you wanted to show me your etchings?”


	2. In which Bodie shows Doyle his etchings

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So this would have been up much sooner, but I got sidetracked researching the Politburo (public libraries are the best) which you may notice doesn’t even turn up in this chapter.

When Bodie had returned to England and set up his import-export business, he had been struck by how very little difference there was dealing with the powers that be. The bribery might be a lot more overt elsewhere, but it all came down to the same thing: as long as you didn’t upset the government and you provided the appropriate motivation, you could do as you pleased.

The blind eye wouldn’t last much longer. Even the most jaded bureaucrat got spooked by a mention of the IRA, and rumours of Bodie’s new project were already circulating. He'd already had a couple of delicately worded inquiries regarding the precise details of what he was working on.

Bodie didn’t care. The payoff was worth the risk.

Of course, if things didn't go according to plan, he'd be dead. It was why he generally avoided dealing with psychopaths.

And since Bodie preferred being alive, he was paying attention to every little detail.

Bodie was used to Marty’s little enthusiasms; they almost always ended badly, either with petty larceny or with broken bones (never Marty’s). Neither had happened yet, which made Duncan an anomaly, and Bodie didn't approve of anomalies. Discreet inquiries had revealed that a Ray Duncan had been serving at her Majesty’s pleasure until recently. Of course, if Duncan was working for one of the security agencies, it would be easy enough to plant a record. And given that Duncan was currently screwing Martell (Bodie shuddered), if he was undercover, his employer was taking Bodie far too seriously for Bodie’s equanimity. So. Find out if Duncan was not what he seemed and deal with him accordingly.

Bodie had been keeping an eye out, so he spotted Marty and Duncan as soon as they arrived. On first glance, Duncan was nothing unusual. Attractive enough, if you were into rough trade. A bit prettier than Marty’s usual, but you could tell there was strength in the wiry body and the battered cheekbone suggested Duncan was a fighter. The jeans made him look completely out of place at the party, but the shirt was sufficiently respectable that Bodie suspected Marty owned it and had insisted Duncan wear it.

Marty abandoned Duncan almost at once, so Bodie watched with interest to see what Duncan would do. Mostly grimace at his gin and tonic, it appeared.

Bodie intercepted Duncan by The Battle of Somosierra. Up close, he was much more to Bodie’s taste. There was a lively intelligence in Duncan’s eyes, even if he seemed distinctly underwhelmed by Bodie. Much to Bodie's surprise, he found he was offended. He wasn’t used to being ignored by anyone, male or female, and especially not at his own party. And who in their right mind would prefer Marty to him?

Still. All loose ends needed to be accounted for.

Bodie ushered Duncan into his study and locked the door. He had several time-honoured techniques used to extract information from the unwilling or unwary, and few of them worked well with an audience.

“You actually have etchings in your study,” said Duncan, sounding slightly betrayed.

“What did you think I meant?”

Duncan took a long look at the locked door and walked up to Bodie mimicking what Bodie had done to him earlier. There were maybe two inches between them. Too close. “I assumed you were going to warn me off Martell. Pretty obvious from the party. I'm not the right type.”

Bodie looked at Doyle's lips which were set in a cocky grin and felt an overwhelming urge to kiss him. Also to punch him. But before he could do either, Doyle took a step back and then leaned back on the locked study door, hips thrust forward. Bodie wondered if it was deliberate.

“So go ahead and warn me. But I'm not going to listen. Or did you genuinely invite me in here to look at your etchings?”

Bodie walked over to the sideboard and poured himself a drink. “Marty is a friend. I look out for my friends. You...” he inspected Duncan in a manner that was intended to be insulting, “are a criminal he picked up off the streets. I don't want you anywhere near him.”

Duncan's eyes slitted in what could have been amusement. “I see. You're jealous.”

Bodie choked.

“You want Martell all to yourself.”

What an awful thought. “I prefer the company of women. Although I have been known to make the odd exception here and there.” He looked Duncan up and down in a manner calculated to underline his point.

Duncan looked slightly rattled, but held his ground. “Fine. You've warned me off. But just so we're clear: I have no plans to listen to you. Now open the door.”

Temperamental little sod, wasn't he? Plan B it was then. “You care that much for Marty?”

“Didn't say that.”

“Marty's money?”

“Didn't say that either.”

“I'll give you two hundred quid to dump Marty.”

The surprise on Duncan's face was worth it. “You really are jealous if you're willing to pay me that much to go away.”

Bodie smiled unpleasantly. “I don't want him distracted.”

“Why?”

If Duncan was security, then it might be better to have him somewhere Bodie could keep an eye on him. Being able to feed false information to his masters wouldn't hurt either. And if he was genuinely who he said he was, well... Bodie took another long look at Duncan. That could have its benefits too. Marty would understand.

“We've got an important contract coming up. I need Marty to be on his toes.”

A flicker of something in Duncan's eyes, but he remained slouched against the door. “I don't want to dump Marty, but I could do with money.” He glared at Bodie. “Anything in the job for me?”

Hooked. Definitely security. “It depends,” Bodie said slowly. “What can you do? Besides the obvious?”

“I get into places people don't want me to get into.”

“Don't need a cracksman.”

“I'm good in a fight.”

“Already got the muscle.”

“I’m a good driver.”

“Don’t need to make a fast getaway.”

“Then all I've got left is the obvious,” said Duncan pushing himself off the door. “And that's not for sale.”

“Really? Because it seems to me that Marty's giving you money and in return you're...”

The punch landed before Bodie even saw it coming.


	3. In which Doyle explores new job opportunities

Waiting outside Cowley's office gave Doyle far too much time to think about the previous evening. Doyle sometimes wondered what happened to his more delicate mission reports. Was there some filing cabinet in the basement of the building filled with cautiously worded variations of “Reader, I fucked him”? He didn't imagine that it was the kind of thing Cowley took home for bedtime reading, judging from the uncomfortable expression on his face when he gave his verbal reports. On the other hand, he had his suspicions about the Minister.

“Mr Cowley will see you now,” said Rose, without lifting her eyes from her typing.

Doyle sighed, and pushed himself away from the wall.

The debriefing was just as awkward as Doyle had expected. Cowley was pleased that Doyle had made contact with Bodie, less so that he had turned down Bodie’s propositions, and even unhappier that he’d punched Bodie and alienated Martell, sending a month’s worth of work down the drain. Doyle was dispatched with firm instructions to fix the problem by any means possible. The subtext was pretty damn obvious.

In fairness, Doyle admitted to himself, he had screwed up. Yes, Duncan was a thug, but staying in character when it jeopardized the mission was a very bad idea. The trouble was, both he and Duncan fiercely resented being called a whore. Duncan just happened to be a bit more aggressive about it.

Fine. Doyle would get this back on track. He was a professional and, as Cowley had sharply reminded him, his feelings were irrelevant.

***

In the light of day Doyle could see that Bodie’s building was as expensive on the outside as it was on the inside. Wiring indicating an expensive burglar alarm neatly snaked up one wall.

None of the buzzers had names next to them, merely numbers. Very discreet. Doyle looked at the buzzer labelled 4 and then decided against it. Much easier to have the awkward conversation in person than through an intercom. He took out his lock picks and, whistling, was into the building in under twenty seconds. You would think, Doyle thought to himself as he climbed the stairs, that criminals would be a bit more security conscious. On the other hand, he appreciated his life being made as easy as possible.

The locks on Bodie’s front door were a bit sturdier, but still perfectly within his abilities. Wouldn’t pick them now, but good to know for later.

Doyle knocked on the door. Unlike the other three flats, Bodie’s door knocker was shaped like a wolf’s head. A deliberate statement? Or just a happy accident? He couldn’t hear any sound coming with within the flat, so he was slightly surprised when the door swung open.

Bodie looked as good as he had the previous evening. Perhaps a little less soigné, but few people looked their best with bruising on the left hand side of their face. Unlike the evening before, Bodie wasn’t wearing a tie and the top couple of buttons of his shirt had been left undone. The expression on his face strongly implied he was not pleased to see Doyle.

Well that was fine with Doyle. It wasn’t like he was pleased to see Bodie. “I came to say sorry,” Doyle said, sounding anything but. It wasn't like Duncan would sound penitent, was it?

“Why?”

“I shouldn't have hit you?”

“Did Marty send you?”

“No. For some reason he was a bit narked with me.” That was a serious understatement. Whatever his relationship with Martell had been, it was well and truly over now. Doyle was grateful that the confrontation with Martell had taken place in the street rather than on the boat, well-stocked as it was with firearms.

“Was he? I can’t imagine why.”

Doyle grinned. He couldn't help himself. “No sense of humour, Martell.”

Bodie just stared at him. “You’ll find I don’t have much sense of humour either. So if you’re finished apologizing, you can leave the premises. Before I call the police.”

“I’ve a proposition for you.”

Bodie sighed. “Does it involve sex? Because I think we already established you don't have anything much else to offer. And I’m not even convinced about that.”

This wasn’t how Doyle had imagined the conversation going. “Um... yes?”

“You don’t sound convinced about it either.” Bodie paused, then pulled his front door fully open. “I’m not about to have this conversation on the doorstep. Come on in before the neighbours start to talk.”

Doyle followed Bodie into a very modern kitchen. The majority of the countertops were filled with detritus from the party. Doyle opened the fridge. It was very clean and empty apart from a couple of half empty trays of canapes. Gunrunning obviously didn’t leave much time for home cooking.

“Sit down and stop nosing about.”

Doyle sat.

Bodie poured himself a cup of tea and then joined Doyle at the table. “So you have a proposition for me.”

Doyle looked hopefully at the cup of tea. Bodie ignored the hint. “I’ve been thinking about what you said last night, and since I’m currently at loose ends, I thought I might take you up on your offer...?”

“My offer? All I did was ask you what useful skills you had, and then you punched me. I hardly call that an offer.” Bodie reached into the fridge, pulled out a plate of vol au vents, and started eating them determinedly. “Oh, I see.” He looked up. “Marty dumped you and you’re looking for someone to keep you in the style in which you’ve become accustomed.”

Just the opening he needed. Doyle leant back in his chair and licked his lips. “You seemed interested last night.” Diplomatically, Doyle left ‘before I hit you’ unsaid.  
He could have saved himself the bother.

“Before you hit me. Which, I should mention, I’m not into.”

“I said I was sorry.”

“You didn’t sound terribly sincere. Do you hit people frequently?”

“Only if they deserve it.” This would be going better if only Bodie wasn't so intensely irritating.

“And I deserved it? Don’t answer. I stated the truth, you hit me, and now here you are, offering me your services. You’re don't just bend over for money, you're also a hypocrite.”

Doyle crossed his arms and stared at the table. If he hit Bodie again, Cowley would post him to the Hebrides.

“But you do seem to be able to keep your temper today. Congratulations. You’re my new driver.”

Well, that made no sense at all. “What?”

“Last night you said you could drive. That changed?”

“No, but...”

“My current deal is turning out to be very time-consuming, so my life would be easier if I had a driver. There is an element of bodyguarding involved. I assume you can fight?”

“I can take care of myself.”

Bodie looked Doyle up and down. “I can imagine you've had to. And you do understand that there may be certain... side duties you have to perform?”

What? Oh. Oh. Of course it came down to that, didn’t it? The chauffeur job was just a polite fiction. Assuming that Bodie’s tastes weren’t too outlandish - Doyle had read some very odd stuff about mercenaries - it shouldn't be a problem. At least Cowley would be pleased. “Fine with me.”

Bodie gestured to the countertops. “Good. You can start by doing the washing up.”


	4. In which Bodie learns a new use for a shoebox

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter totally did not want to happen.

“And then I said, ‘Chef, do you really consider this to be a Beef Wellington? The tenderloin in a proper Beef Wellington should be seared on the outside for no more than...”

Bodie idly played with the napkin in his lap, tuning out Ratty’s list of the Beef Wellington’s shortcomings. Ratty fancied himself a gourmet, so any meal with him was guaranteed to take place in some poncy pseudo-French restaurant and involve Ratty airing his thoughts on the chef’s shortcomings.

Ordinarily, Marty would have been the lucky man learning the proper way to prepare puff pastry, but Marty was not best pleased with Bodie at the moment. Something to do with Bodie locking himself in his study with Duncan. (Marty: “So if you weren't making a pass at Duncan, what were you doing with in there? Discussing Sartre?”)

Bodie looked out of the window where his new chauffeur was leaning on his car, advertising his wares to all and sundry. He looked like something out of those dubious movies Bodie’s old friend Giorgio produced. Maybe Duncan had actually appeared in one of the dubious movies Giorgio produced. Probably best not to ask.

Although Bodie was still questioning the wisdom of hiring Duncan, he considered the position of chauffeur a stroke of genius. He missed doing his own driving, but the expression on Duncan’s face when he had produced the uniform had made it worthwhile. Duncan looked a great deal more civilized in a decent bit of tailoring, even if the cap left a lot to be desired. Bodie’s suggestion of a decent haircut had not gone down well.

Bodie still didn’t have a handle on Duncan. His first instinct, that Duncan was a temperamental little sod, had been absolutely spot on, but beyond that? Duncan was cagey with information; he’d referred briefly to his childhood in the Midlands and a brief stint serving at Her Majesty’s pleasure, but beyond that he was a blank slate.

Ratty turned to see at what Bodie was staring at and made a sound that could almost be described as a squeak. “That's your new chauffeur?”

Bodie nodded.

“I have grave news for you, Mr Bodie. He is not a man you can trust.”

“That describes everyone I know, Ratty, Up to and including you.”

“Mr Bodie, I prefer being addressed as Mr Hawkins. Or, if you must, by my Christian name, Reginald. I find ‘Ratty’ does not inspire confidence.”

Neither does looking like a rat. “And in what way is Duncan not a man I can trust?”

“For starters, Duncan isn’t his real name. Also he’s a rozzer.”

“A rozzer?”

“A policeman,” said Ratty helpfully.

“I know what a rozzer is. I want to know what makes you think Duncan is one?”

“He’s not one anymore, not after the bribery case. Detective Constable Doyle, he was.”

Bodie raised an eyebrow. “Duncan was a bent policeman?”

“Nah, he turned in a couple of bent coppers.” Ratty shook his head disapprovingly. It wasn't clear whether it was Doyle or the bent coppers he disapproved of. “Doyle didn’t last after that. Coppers take care of their own.”

“So what did he do after that?”

“Dunno. It’s not like I keep track of these things is it? But I can tell you this: whatever he’s doing now, it’s not working as a chauffeur.”

***

With a name to work with, it was easy enough to find out Duncan's real identity. A discreetly placed enquiry with one of his favourite information brokers revealed within a few hours that a man named Ray Doyle worked for CI5.

Bodie’d heard of CI5 of course. Know your enemy and all that. Cowley, the Controller of CI5, was legendarily incorruptible, which was more than than could be said for that unpleasant turnip at MI5. Bodie'd met a couple of men who had worked with Cowley during the war and they'd been emphatic that he steer clear of CI5. Well, too late for that now.

So, what to do about Duncan?

Bodie'd known when he hired Duncan that he might be not be what he seemed. And now that he knew for sure, Bodie had to decide what to do with him. Firing Duncan was rejected out of hand. Keeping him around to feed misinformation to CI5 and, if things got particularly hairy, to use as a bargaining chip seemed like a much better idea. But using Duncan merely as a chauffeur would look suspicious; Duncan had no background in driving and Bodie could have hired any number of far more trustworthy individuals. The only way Duncan's position would make sense was if there was some clearly demonstrated ulterior motive.

Bodie rubbed his hands together. He did so love clearly demonstrating ulterior motives.

***

The nice thing about the man Duncan was pretending to be was that Bodie didn't even have to make a pretense of seduction. He could just order Duncan to come up to his flat after the last meeting of that day. Although maybe he'd send Duncan out to pick up takeaway first. No, he could send him out afterwards. Sex always worked up an appetite.

If Duncan had any reservations about coming up to Bodie's flat, he certainly didn't show them. He simply said “of course, sir,” in a manner that was far more predatory than respectful.

Bodie watched Duncan lope up the stairs in front of him. Yes, he was going to enjoy this.

Bodie’s sense of happy anticipation vanished as soon as he reached the top landing. The markers he'd left on his front door had fallen off, which strongly suggested someone had opened it since he'd left that morning. And since he couldn't see any telltale marks from lockpicks, it was likely the one person who actually had a key. Which meant his evening of not-seduction and takeaway was going to have to be abandoned.

Well, maybe not the takeaway.

Bodie turned to Duncan. “I've changed my mind. Take the rest of the evening off.”

Duncan actually looked disappointed.

Once Bodie was certain Duncan had left, he opened his front door. He could hear the gentle sounds of the television from the living room. There, as expected, sat Marty Martell on the least uncomfortable sofa, one leg crossed over the other, sipping what appeared to be a gin and tonic. The only surprising note was Marty's choice of television viewing.

Marty spoke before Bodie could say a word. “Yes, dear boy, I am watching Blue Peter. They had a delightful segment on outdoors survival techniques for seven-year olds. Less bloody than some of ours, but I suppose you can't get some things out before the watershed.”

Bodie examined the television screen in front of him. “Yes, but now they're showing you how to make a dress shop for your Barbie dolls.”

“I have nieces,” said Marty primly. “And it's nice to know how to use a shoebox to make something other than an improvised explosive device.”

Bodie walked over to the drinks trolley and poured himself a whisky. “So what do I owe the honour of this visit? I thought you weren't talking to me.”

“Under the circumstances I thought it best to make an exception. The first stage of...” Marty paused to indicate his distaste for the codename “...Operation Banshee has been completed.”

“Finally? I was beginning to think he wasn't interested.”

“Oh, he's deeply interested. Lots of questions about amounts and times and places.”

“And what did you tell him?”

“That if the money was right, he could get what he needed.”

Bodie nodded. “So you're meeting again?”

“Thursday. And then I will wipe my hands of it all and leave it with you.”

“Be careful.”

“I believe I'm the one who should be saying that to you. Speaking of being careful, I hear you've hired Duncan as your chauffeur. Since you don't need a chauffeur, I’m forced to assume you've hired him to...”

Bodie didn't let Marty finish that sentence. “Duncan’s undercover. He works for CI5.”

Marty actually looked surprised by that. “And he was sent to seduce me? How delightful. First time I've ever approved of how the government spends my taxes.”

“You don't pay taxes.”

Marty waved one hand in the air. “I pay most of them. It seems grossly unfair that Duncan’s prodigious talents are being wasted on you. What are you planning to do with him? Besides the obvious, I mean?”

Bodie did not want to have this conversation. “The obvious being that I now have a CI5 trained bodyguard?”

“Obvious being the sex.” Marty narrowed his eyes. “Really, Bodie, you haven't fucked him yet? What are you waiting for? Did someone put saltpeter in your food?”

Bodie shrugged. “I was getting to it. I trust you don't mind.”

“That's never bothered you before. Other people's boys, other people's girls, all fair game to you. I know. You were worried that he might turn you down.”

“Why would he turn me down?”

Marty looked Bodie up and down. “Not everyone’s tastes run to, as you so modestly put it, tall, dark and beautiful. Some men prefer blonds. But that doesn't answer my original question: what are you going to do with him?”

Bodie smiled. “I have a cunning plan.”


	5. In which Doyle does not experience job satisfaction

Doyle slumped in the front seat of the car, trying not to put pressure on the bruises running along the right side of his body. Honestly, he should have known better to complain to Cowley during last night’s report about how bloody boring the job was. Cowley had merely said “is that so laddie?” and then sent him off as backup for Murphy on a “routine job”.

Doing Bodie’s washing up should have been a hint. Three days, and all he had done was drive Bodie from meeting to meeting, with an occasional side trip to run errands. Like now. Bodie had announced he really wanted fish and chips from Dave’s, and could Doyle pick it up right away? Which wouldn’t be at all odd, given the amount Bodie ate (where did he put it all?), but for the fact Dave’s was close to being on the other side of London.

A suspicious man might think Bodie wanted Doyle out of the way.

Which explained why Doyle was currently hunkered down in a battered old Ford watching the entrance to Bodie’s flat. No one had come in and no one had left the building, so maybe Bodie hadn't been trying to get rid of him. Doyle sighed. He was finding this job extremely frustrating. Bodie, while happy to witter on about boring things like cricket, was irritatingly tight lipped about what the business deal actually was.

Pillow talk was always an option, but it wasn't as if Doyle was having much luck with that either. Last night Doyle'd thought that he was making progress when Bodie had invited him up to his flat. Well, less invited and more ordered. And then Bodie had inexplicably changed his mind.

A wave from Lloyd brought Doyle out of his reverie. Lloyd, as a very recent addition to the A squad, could still be asked to run such trivial errands as picking up fish and chips while Doyle kept an eye on Bodie’s flat. Doyle loped over to where Lloyd stood, holding Bodie’s teatime snack.

“Any luck?” asked Lloyd. Lloyd was young and keen and reminded Doyle of a very well trained golden retriever.

Doyle shook his head. “Nothing.”

“Heard you got into a bit of excitement last night.”

“Simple pickup, Cowley said. Fucking Stevenson bit me.”

Lloyd just laughed and handed the food to Doyle. “You owe me two quid fifty for this lot.”

Doyle waved his hand in a gesture that could be interpreted by the naive as “I’ll pay you later” and set off towards Bodie’s building. One of the downstairs neighbours was leaving as Doyle reached the front door, so he was saved the bother of picking the lock. Bodie's front door was just as he'd left it, slightly ajar. Doyle went to pull it shut, and then heard the sound of Bodie’s voice. He froze. Had someone managed to walk in while he was calling Lloyd to pick up the food? He listened a little longer. No answering voice. Right. Bodie was talking to someone on the phone. Doyle pushed the door open slightly wider so that he could better eavesdrop.

“... mutual acquaintance.” Long pause. “There’s a business matter that... No, not at all. No, he didn’t. Yes. Yes. When? I can do that. Where? I know it. I’ll see you then. Of course. Good bye.”

Doyle waited a minute to see if Bodie would make another phone call. When nothing happened, he slowly pulled the front door closed, and rapped on it loudly.

When Bodie opened the front door Doyle triumphantly waved the bag of takeaway in his face.

“That was fast,” Bodie said. He sounded, to Doyle's ear, slightly suspicious.

“Went by Lenny’s instead. Much better fish and chips, and they're a lot nearer.”

“Lenny's is fine,” said Bodie, as he took the bag from Doyle and marched into the kitchen. Doyle followed. Bodie dumped the bag on to the kitchen table, and grabbed a couple of beers. “Sit down and have a drink.”

Bodie opened the container and stared at it thoughtfully. For a man who’d wanted fish and chips that badly, he certainly didn’t seem to be that interested in eating them. He took a swig of his beer and turned to Doyle. “Something I've been wondering. Why do you do this?”

What? “What?”

“I mean, why don't you get a proper job? You’ve been in prison at least once. You're intelligent enough to know the risks.”

Doyle shrugged. It wasn't like his mum didn't ask him this on a regular basis, and she didn't even think he was a criminal. “Can you see me wearing a suit working in an office? Because I can't. And I'm good at what I do. If I run into trouble once in a while, well, I'm willing to take that chance. I could ask you the same thing. It's not like you don't take risks.”

“Not the way I used to. These days I just have meetings with people. Make introductions. It's nothing like working as a mercenary. I think...” Bodie trailed off. Whatever he had been about to say, it didn't make him happy.

“You think...?” Doyle prompted.

“Nothing important.” Bodie turned towards Doyle. “Talking of risks, did I mention that Marty and I have had a parting of the ways? He seems,” said Bodie, running one hand down Doyle’s leg, “to think that I have an unprofessional interest in you. So if you encounter him, keep in mind that he may be pissed off with both of us.”

Doyle put his beer down. “Do you have an unprofessional interest in me?”

“Well, that depends what your profession is, doesn't it? Oh, sunshine, don't overreact,” Bodie said, catching Doyle’s right wrist in his hand. “For the sake of harmony, let's just say my interest is most unprofessional.”

This was what he'd been hoping for, wasn't it? Doyle forced a smile onto his face. “Is it now?”

“Most definitely.” Bodie stood up, pulling Doyle up with him. With one quick move, Bodie pushed Doyle against the kitchen wall, keeping a firm grip on his wrist. “But then I've never had any problem mixing business with pleasure.” He pulled at the top button of Doyle's shirt. “I always wonder why you even bother with buttons. You seem to get distracted after you've only done two up. Although today you're a little more covered than... Oh.” One finger traced the bruise on Doyle’s left shoulder.

“I was at the Dove and Dog last night,” Doyle said by way of explanation. Lying was a much better idea than telling Bodie that a couple of drug smugglers had objected to being arrested.

“You like it rough?” asked Bodie as he continued unbuttoning Doyle’s shirt.

Doyle shook his head. “Not that rough.”

“Glad to hear it.” Bodie had found the bite mark and was circling it with his thumb. “He really did a number on you, didn't he?”

Doyle shrugged. “He didn't get what he wanted.” Time to steer the conversation to something a little less dangerous. Or maybe just as dangerous, but in a completely different way. “What do you want?”

“At the moment?” Bodie triumphantly undid the last of Doyle’s shirt buttons and slid his hand into Doyle’s waistband. “You can't figure that one out yourself?”

“I'm beginning to suspect it's not my mind.”

“Very good.” Bodie’s hand had continued its investigations. “Do I pay you so poorly that you can't afford underwear?”

“Technically speaking,” Doyle stifled a groan, “you haven't paid me at all yet.”

“If I tried to pay you now, you'd probably take it the wrong way.” Bodie let go of him and stepped away. “You really do make a pretty picture, all unbuttoned and dissolute.” He looked calculatingly at the kitchen table and then grabbed Doyle's wrist again. “But I think I'd prefer to continue this in the bedroom.”

Doyle let Bodie drag him to the bedroom. If Bodie wanted to be the aggressor, that was fine with him. Once in the bedroom, Bodie wasted no time in pulling Doyle's shirt off and pushing him onto the bed. Bodie, still fully dressed, reached into the bedside drawer. “Close your eyes.”

Doyle obeyed, only to open his eyes as he felt the cold metal of handcuffs fasten around his wrists. “What are you doing?”

“I'm not going to hurt you. But I do like to be in control.” Bodie pulled down Doyle's trousers. “Very nice. And I see that you're happy to let me be in control.” He ran his hand down Doyle’s bare flank.

Doyle shivered.

Bodie's hand slowly moved over Doyle's hips. “One thing I should mention: I'm not very good at sharing. So no more visits to the Dove. At least while you work for me.”

Doyle would have agreed to almost anything, given what Bodie's hand was doing to him. He couldn't remember ever having been turned on so fast. “I... don't... have a problem... with that.”

“Glad to hear it.” Bodie bent over Doyle and ran his tongue up the inside of his thigh.

“It's a lot better if you take off your clothes, you know,” said Doyle helpfully.

“So I've heard.” Bodie raised his head and glanced over at the clock on his bedside table. “However, given the time, I'll have to leave that until later.” 

What the hell? Doyle watched as Bodie walked over to his wardrobe and pulled out a jacket. “Where are you going? I thought we were...”

“I have a meeting with a very well-connected gentleman in about twenty minutes. And he does not like to be kept waiting.”

Doyle pulled at the cuffs. “And you’re just going to leave me here? Handcuffed to the bed?”

Bodie smirked. “Think of it as a lesson. When I ask you to do something, you do it exactly as I ask. So if I ask for fish and chips from Dave’s that’s what you get me.”

Apparently Bodie could turn Doyle off just as fast as he turned him on. “You’re handcuffing me to the bed and leaving me because you didn’t like your sodding fish and chips? What kind of fucking madman are...?”

Bodie put his hand over Doyle’s mouth. “You probably want to stop right there before you say something you’ll regret. You really have to learn to control your temper.”

Bodie’s hand over Doyle’s mouth prevented him from pointing out that he fucking well was controlling his temper. For starters, he hadn’t actually bitten Bodie’s hand.

“Besides,” continued Bodie, uncovering Doyle’s mouth, “it will give me an incentive to get the meeting with Mad Boris wrapped up as quickly as possible.”

Doyle tried a different tack. “Shouldn't I be there? I thought I was meant to be your bodyguard.”

“Duncan, blossom, I’m sure you can hold your own in a bar fight, but Mad Boris would wipe the floor with you. And he doesn't deal well with surprise attendees. Don’t worry. I’ll be back as soon as I can and then we can continue where we left off.” Bodie bent down and, much to Doyle’s surprise, kissed him on the lips. “Believe me, I’d much rather be here. But needs must.”

Doyle swore as Bodie left the room. Bodie was meeting with Mad Boris - who wasn't even meant to be in the country - and Doyle was tied to a bed. He pulled at the handcuffs again. Nice and snug, and very firmly attached to the iron bed frame. There was no way he was getting out of these until Bodie came back.

Cowley was going to kill him, if he didn't die of frustration first.


	6. In which Doyle does his own typing

Bodie's meeting took two hours. Doyle watched the clock very carefully, getting more and more irritated each time the minute hand moved.

The first hour was spent fleshing out an elaborate fantasy that involved Bodie’s arrest, trial (not that there was much for Doyle to testify to, other than Bodie being an frustrating prat), and lengthy incarceration. If the fantasy took an unexpected turn following the arrest, Doyle wasn't about to tell. Although he was never going to be able to look at interrogation room two in the same way.

Doyle spent the second hour figuring out what he would do if Bodie's meeting with Mad Boris went horribly wrong - it wasn't, given Mad Boris’s reputation, that unlikely a scenario - and Bodie never returned. Realistically, at some point Cowley would notice that Doyle hadn't reported in for a while and send someone to find him. He hoped it would be sooner than later.

With visions of Bodie’s dismembered body dancing around his head, it was with an enormous sense of relief that Doyle heard the front door open and Bodie, doing the most appalling American accent, carol out “honey, I'm home!”

Bodie was fine. Naturally.

Doyle stretched his arms to get the kinks out and tried to look like a man who had enjoyed spending two hours cuffed to a bed. They did exist. And it might help to get the details of the meeting with Mad Boris if he didn’t look like he wanted to punch Bodie.

Bodie walked into the bedroom brandishing a bottle of champagne, and, fuck, was he skipping? “Oh good, you're still here.”

“Where,” said Doyle in the most dulcet tones he could manage, “did you expect me to be?”

“You pick locks for a living. Not unreasonable to assume that you'd managed to escape. But I'm awfully glad you didn't. Very nice sight for a man to come home to, especially when he's celebrating.” Bodie put the bottle down on the bedside table. “Glasses. We need glasses.”

“You wouldn't like to unlock these first?”

Bodie looked Doyle up and down. “Absolutely not.” He vanished out of the room and returned with two glasses. “Did I mention we’re celebrating? Mad Boris was absolutely delighted to become my new supplier. He has a line on all sorts of specialty items.”

Doyle resisted telling Bodie that he didn't care. Not conducive to information gathering.

“Like what?”

“Boris has lots of friends on the Russian military, all of whom have an appreciation of the American dollar. You'd be surprised what can fall off the back of a lorry without anyone noticing. Or maybe you wouldn't.” Bodie took a sip on the champagne. “Want some?” he asked, waving the glass in front of Doyle's nose.

“It would be much easier to drink if you'd let me out of these cuffs.”

“No doubt,” said Bodie, “but it would also make it easier for you to hit me. Which would spoil the celebratory mood. And don't tell me that you don't want to. You've spent two hours tied up. Most people find that annoying.”

Doyle tried not to glare at Bodie. “I take it you have extensive experience in this area.”

Bodie smirked. “Might do. I know all sorts of interesting knots.”

Doyle gave up the battle and glared at him. “That I believe. I've learned my lesson about obeying you, so let me go. I'm cold and my arms are tired.”

“Believe me, you'll be warm in no time. I meant it when I said we'd be continuing this after my meeting.” Bodie took off his tie, and tossed it onto the pillow beside Doyle's head.

Doyle reminded himself that this was the most information he'd got out of Bodie so far, so if being tied up kept him talking, so be it. “Fine. No more complaining. We're celebrating because Mad Boris is selling you unspecified Russian military items. Sounds dodgy to me, but I assume you know what you're doing, so hurrah.”

Bodie lay down beside him on the bed, propped up on one elbow, and traced one finger down Doyle's chest. “You could sound more enthusiastic. This deal is going to keep me in Jaguars and bespoke tailoring for the rest of my natural life. You too, if you stick with me.”

“Is this the kind of deal that ends up with the authorities tossing us into prison for the rest of our lives?”

“Only if they catch me. Which they won't. I haven't done anything illegal yet. All I'm doing is introducing one gentleman who has something to sell to another gentleman who wishes to buy.”

Bodie's hands shouldn't be so distracting. Doyle tried to concentrate. “And who is the other gentleman?”

“Someone who isn't in the country yet. Customs and immigration problems.” Bodie drained his glass and put it down on the table. “Now, where were we?”

***

Cowley wasn't at headquarters when Doyle arrived, for which he was profoundly grateful. Doyle commandeered one of the typewriters available for agents - he had a strict rule about not asking any of the secretaries to type anything containing the words “handcuffed to a bed” - and started on his report.

Unfortunately for Doyle, in the half an hour and it took him to type the report, Cowley had returned from wherever he had been and was sitting, sphinx-like, in his office.

“Come on in laddie,” Cowley said in the genial tones that generally meant a good bottle of scotch or pulling one over on the Minister.

“Sir,” said Doyle, closing the door behind him and sitting down. His preferred course of action, throwing the report on to Cowley's desk and running away, wasn’t going to work.

Cowley picked up the report and started reading. Doyle could tell precisely when he reached the part regarding Bodie’s departure. The geniality faded away.

“Mad Boris?”

“That's what Bodie said. I didn't think he was even in the country.”

“We all know there are ways of getting in and out undetected. Do you think that the earlier phone call was to Mad Boris?”

Doyle shrugged. “Could have been. Or to an intermediary. Bodie was definitely setting up a meeting.”

“The one you missed. That was careless of you.”

Doyle didn't say anything, because what was there to say?

Fortunately Cowley didn't seem to be in the mood to dwell on his mistakes. “Continue to keep a close eye on Bodie. If he's meeting with Mad Boris, I suspect you’ll be seeing developments soon enough. Oh, and Doyle?”

“Yes?”

“You’re not to tell anyone else in CI5 what you’re doing. Your reports are for my eyes only. That means no giving them to the secretaries.”

Doyle'd been doing his own typing anyway, so the only reason to argue the point was contrariness. “I have to do my own typing?”

“It’s much more efficient that way.”

“How can you say it’s much more efficient? Have you seen how fast I type?”

“It’s more efficient for the secretaries, if you’re not bothering them.”

Doyle could have pointed out to Cowley that given the afternoon he’d just had, he had no time or energy for the secretaries, but that was something he really didn't want to discuss.

“Of course. Sir.”

“Mad Boris is dangerous. Try to keep Bodie alive. I suspect, once this is all over, with the proper incentive we’ll be able to get a lot of useful information out of that young man.” Given the expression on Cowley’s face, Doyle was very glad he wasn't future Bodie. “Well, what are you waiting for? Run along.”

All the secretaries had gone home for the night, so Doyle settled for the next best thing and headed into the VIP room in search of someone to talk to. The kettle was lukewarm and there were half-full mugs scattered about the room, but there was a distinct lack of actual people.

Doyle shrugged and heading out of the door. He'd have to be up bright and early to pick up Bodie anyway, so best to go back to his dreary bedsit with its thin uncomfortable mattress. He tried not to think of the alternative: a much larger, much more comfortable bed, featuring one very warm and enthusiastic occupant. Bodie had made it plain he was welcome to sleep over at his place, but Doyle had made his excuses and left. He'd needed to report in to Cowley after all.

No other reason.


	7. In which Bodie contemplates getting away from it all

Bodie was feeling guilty. It was not an emotion that he had much experience with. Bodie’s rules of life were simple: keep your promises (except when you don't), be loyal to your colleagues (unless there was a reason not to), and don't get attached to anyone (no exceptions). Guilt was unnecessary. You made your choices and lived with them.

Bodie’s plan had been perfectly logical: use Duncan to feed misinformation to CI5. The sex with him was just a bonus. So how, in just under a week, had he become attached to the man? It wasn't just the sex, although that was damn near phenomenal. He actually liked the man. And that didn't make any sense either.

Really, Duncan was the person who should be feeling guilty. Duncan was the one who was lying about his identity. Duncan was the one who was spying. Duncan was the one who was had seduced Bodie for information.

Bodie grinned. Well, maybe Duncan hadn't done all the seducing.

And that was another thing. Take Tuesday afternoon: Bodie had not held out much hope for picking up where they’d left off, but picked up they had. And once it was all over and done with, and they'd cleaned up in the bathroom, and then cleaned up after cleaning up in the bathroom, Duncan had scuttled off like a traumatized virgin.

It wasn't like Duncan hadn't enjoyed himself; Bodie had made sure of that. And it wasn't like Bodie was the kind of man who liked to cuddle afterwards, but it would be nice if the person he'd been fucking senseless just half an hour previous would look him in the eye.

He'd wondered if Duncan would actually come back, but there he was bright and early Wednesday morning acting as if the previous afternoon had never happened.

Which had spurred Bodie on to stage a rematch that afternoon. Without handcuffs that time, mind you, but with a couple of other interesting props. But when Bodie'd suggested to Duncan it would be easier for him to stay the night, Duncan had muttered something about not having a toothbrush and rushed out, leaving Bodie lying in the wreckage of the bed feeling unwanted.

You're just a job to him, Bodie reminded himself. Duncan doesn't have to like you to sleep with you, and given that you stand for everything Duncan's working against, chances are pretty high that he doesn't.

Bodie’s immediate solution to the problem was to wear his best suit (he hoped no one was planning to shoot him that day, because a bullet wound would really bugger up the tailoring) and the blue shirt that Angela said brought out his eyes. Duncan might not like Bodie, but he was certainly going to want him.

There was a knock at the door just as Bodie was fastening his cufflinks. Duncan was early. That had to be a good sign.

Bodie bounced over to the front door and opened it, but instead of the expected scruffy chauffeur leaning against the doorframe there was one older and far more dignified man.

“Latimer,” said Bodie. “What a surprise.”

Latimer looked somewhat taken aback by being addressed by name. “I wasn’t aware we’d met.”

“We haven’t,” said Bodie and left it at that. No sense in giving a senior member of the British intelligence forces any more information than necessary, especially when that member was Latimer.

“May I come in?” asked Latimer politely. Bodie wasn’t fooled. Latimer was coming in whether or not he liked it.

“This way,” said Bodie, and led him to the living room. He offered Latimer the most uncomfortable chair. It was the least he could do.

Latimer sat down, placing his hat on the table next to him. He didn’t take off his coat, which suggested he wasn’t planning a very long visit.

“Drink?” asked Bodie pointing to the drinks cabinet.

Latimer looked shocked. Well, it was only eight in the morning.

Bodie remained standing. Latimer on his own indicated that Bodie wasn’t about to be arrested or killed, but it was still good to remain mobile. “So what brings you to see me?”

“A little birdie told me that you had a meeting on Tuesday.”

Bodie forced the muscles on his face to remain in an expression of polite interest. There was no way that Latimer could know about that particular meeting. He'd been more than usually cautious and he knew no one had followed him. Latimer had to be fishing. “I’m a businessman. I meet with a lot of people.”

“But this one was different. Your meetings tend to be with the flotsam and jetsam of society.” Latimer paused. Bodie would have bet money that this was the point in Latimer’s speech where he took a sip of tea to heighten the dramatic tension. Such a shame no one had offered him any.

Bodie wasn't about to break this delightfully dramatic silence. He stood and waited for Latimer to continue.

Latimer sighed unhappily at the spot on the coffee table where the teapot should have been and continued. “I'm sure it comes as no surprise to you that the British government would like to have the chance to have a chat with Mr Migunov.”

Deny that he'd met with Mad Boris or not? Bodie stalled. “I wouldn't have thought that British Immigration would have let Mad Boris into the country.”

Latimer gave him a look of great disappointment. “Mr Bodie, we’re an island. For the last two thousand years, anyone who has a boat and wants to get here has.”

“Except the Spanish Armada,” said Bodie helpfully. “And the Germans.”

“I think you’ll find that the Germans...” Latimer closed his mouth. Bodie wondered what he had been about to say. Probably something about the Channel Islands. “Mr Bodie, we know you met with Boris Migunov. We have witnesses to the meeting.”

Bodie raised an eyebrow. Now that he didn't believe. Which meant that someone had told MI5 about the meeting. There was no way that Latimer had heard about it from Mad Boris’s camp, so that meant CI5. Which raised a number of questions, none of which he had time for at the moment.

This needed to be played very carefully. He didn't mind CI5 knowing about Mad Boris; after all he'd planned it that way, but MI5? “We both work in professions where discretion is key. If I had met with Mr Migunov, which I haven't, it would be inappropriate for me to tell you about it.”

Latimer templed his hands and leant forward. “We both know that whatever you're planning with Migunov is not going to make me happy. And I do have the power to arrest you and throw you in some damp, dark dungeon and no one will ever see you again.”

“You've never heard of habeas corpus?” asked Bodie. “The rule of law?”

Latimer looked at him as if he were a particularly dim schoolboy. “You're not that naive. At the moment you have the opportunity to do me a favour. I suggest you take it.”

“Mad Boris seems like an awfully small fish for you.”

“I have a colleague who'd like to speak to him.”

Ah. Mad Boris would be traded to someone for a favour. Bodie wondered who. Mad Boris didn't have a lot of fans outside the USSR, and the only reason he was still in one piece inside the USSR was a liberal application of bribery and gratuitous violence.

Latimer took his silence as agreement. “So we’re agreed? You will divert Boris Migunov into my hands.”

“I'd expect something in return.”

“Of course.” Latimer stood up, picking up his hat. “You will find having friends in high places of enormous use if you should run into any type of trouble. I'll see myself out.”

Bodie followed him to the front door anyway. No sense in letting the man have a chance to wander around the flat.

The door closed behind him, Bodie walked back into the living room to look for bugs. There hadn't been much chance for Latimer to plant anything, but it didn’t hurt to check.

Inspection completed, Bodie sat back and thought about the conversation he’d just had. This was an unexpected complication. The British intelligence forces were not noted for playing nicely together. From what he knew of Cowley, he might have passed on the information about Mad Boris in return for a favour. Or maybe Duncan - or someone else at CI5 - had sold him out.

He walked back into the kitchen and made himself tea while he contemplated the problem.

He was just taking his first sip of tea when there was a knock at the door. Bodie put down his mug and strode into the hallway. He'd have to complain to his landlord about the quality of the lock on the entrance to the building. Or he could just give Duncan a key, so he didn't pick the lock all the time.

“You're late,” he said as he pulled open the front door.

Only it wasn't Duncan there, it was Marty, looking very pleased with himself.

“You really are getting sloppy, aren't you? Didn't even bother looking to see who it was. Had I been in a homicidal frame of mind, you'd be lying in a bloody heap on the floor.” Marty pushed by Bodie and headed straight for the kitchen where he poured himself a cup of tea.

“You're really not doing a very good job of ignoring me.”

Marty gave him a look that Bodie imagined had been taught to generations of Martells as a way of quelling the peasants. “I ran into our mutual friend again yesterday. I assumed that you might be interested in the details of our meeting, but if not, I would be happy to leave.”

He put his teacup down. “What did Latimer want? I saw him leaving your building.”

“Apparently it’s get a visit from upper class twit day.”

Marty rolled his eyes. “If you think Latimer’s a twit, you really have lost all your instincts for self preservation. The man may be a product of inbreeding and the English public school system but he’s not to be underestimated.”

“He was very clear about the fact he was threatening me. Apparently he knows about my meeting with Mad Boris.”

Marty raised an eyebrow. “Did he now? How very enterprising of him. How was your meeting with Mad Boris?”

“Extraordinarily successful. You wouldn't believe what he had to sell.”

“Probably not. And how did Latimer find out about it?”

Bodie’s grin faded. “Through CI5, I assume. Latimer didn't provide details.”

Marty looked thoughtful. “How badly is this going to complicate things?”

Bodie shrugged. “It depends on how your meeting went with...”

There was another knock at the door. It was getting to be a bit like a French farce. This time Bodie remembered to check the peephole. He needn't have bothered, since it was Duncan.

“You're late.”

“Not my fault. Fucking rozzers pulled me over and were asking me all sorts of questions. Said I matched the description of someone they were looking for. Stereotyping, that is. Just because my car isn't shiny, and...”

While Bodie was very impressed by Duncan's ability to capture the whine of the career criminal unjustly detained, he had better things do that day. “Enough.” He slammed the door hard behind Duncan for emphasis and headed back to the kitchen.

“Oh look. The lower classes have arrived.”

Duncan ignored Marty. He walked over to the teapot and poured himself a mug of tea which he then proceeded to slurp from loudly.

Marty winced.

Bodie thought about grabbing the whisky decanter from the living room.

“So, Marty, what were you saying about the meeting with our mutual friend?”

Marty looked at Duncan. “You really want to discuss this in front of the servants?”

Duncan took another loud slurp of tea.

“Duncan works for me. He knows that he doesn't discuss what he hears outside this room.” Bodie got great satisfaction from watching Marty and Duncan wince in unison.

Marty’s lips thinned. “Apparently he's concerned about proceeding with the transaction in London. Too much of a security risk. You'll be surprised to know that there are a number of people here who wish him ill. He's hoping to transact business in a rather more remote area.”

Bodie nodded. “I’ll set something up, and then let you pass the information to him.”

Marty looked at Duncan again and then turned back to Bodie. “You're not going to listen to me, but I still think this is a bad idea. It was a bad idea before, and now that La...”

“Pas devant les domestiques, Marty.”

“You're going to get yourself killed. Or arrested and then killed.”

“Nonsense. What I am going to do is find a nice cottage somewhere rustic so that certain people feel comfortable going there to commit all sorts of illegal acts.”

Marty made a choking sound.

“Not that kind of illegal act, Marty.” Bodie turned to Duncan. “Go home and pack a suitcase, and don't forget your toothbrush. We're going on a nice holiday.”


	8. In which there are chocolate digestives

“Careful!” Bodie yelled for about the hundredth time.

Doyle was perfectly capable of simultaneously yelling back at Bodie and steering the car through the unnecessarily narrow roads, but resisted. He’d already told Bodie that he could drive the damn car if he didn’t feel Doyle’s driving was up to snuff and Bodie had declined.

Doyle narrowed his eyes and returned to the task at hand: keeping the Jag in one piece. Why couldn’t Bodie’s buyer have met him in London? Agreed, Wales was very pretty, with all the lush greenery, and the mountains, and the general sense of having wandered into a landscape that had existed exactly like this for thousands of years, but it wasn’t very convenient.

Unless, of course, the person Bodie was meeting surreptitiously was coming from someplace nearby. Like Ireland.

It made a lot of sense. The IRA would be eager customers for what Mad Boris had to sell. And there were a lot of convenient harbours for a boat to slip into. Doyle wasn't deluded about Bodie. He knew he had a past that involved murder and mayhem. He knew the kinds of people who bought arms weren't likely to be using them purely as props. But he'd thought, he’d hoped, that Bodie wasn't quite so far gone that he'd try to sell weapons to the IRA.

But even if he was, trying to change Bodie’s mind about the deal made no sense. It wasn’t like Bodie’s sale was ever going to go through. Cowley would make sure of that. In reality, talking to to Bodie might do more harm than good, given that it could wreck a month-long operation.

“Bodie,” Doyle began, “you really don’t have to go through with this meeting.” Cowley could yell at him later.

Bodie looked up from the book he was reading. “I really, really do.”

“You don't have to...” Doyle's argument was interrupted by a piece of farm equipment appearing out of nowhere, traveling far faster than physics suggested it could or should. Swearing under his breath, Doyle pulled the car as far to the left as it could go (two inches, if that) and hoped for the best.

“Careful!” Bodie yelled for the hundred and first time.

Fine. Doyle decided he'd keep his eyes on the road and talk Bodie out of the meeting once they got to wherever they were going to. “How much further?”

Bodie fished the piece of paper he'd been consulting throughout the entire trip out of his pocket. It would have been a lot easier if he'd just given Doyle the piece of paper to begin with, but Bodie wasn't doing anything the easy way today.

“Keep on going until you get to,” and then Bodie said something that sounded like he was clearing his throat but Doyle was pretty sure was Welsh. Not a lot of help as directions went.

“Want to spell that for me?”

Bodie spelled it for him. Doyle was appalled by the vowel to consonant ratio.

To Doyle's mind, the whole situation left a lot to be desired. Despite Bodie’s apparent cheerfulness, Doyle could tell he was on edge, and that made Doyle nervous. The meeting was taking place in a cottage lent to Bodie by some nebulous associate. Useful details like its actual location had not been forthcoming. Doyle had called Cowley while he was off packing his suitcase and provided him with what information he had (“Bodie’s meeting someone in the country.”) Cowley had not been impressed by the intelligence, but had agreed, under the circumstances, that a tracking advice should be stuck on the Jag. He had been irritatingly evasive on the subject of backup.

The trouble was Doyle just didn't have enough information to form anything even resembling a plan. Cowley’s instructions had been to keep Bodie alive and not to shoot the sheep. The farmers really didn't like that, Cowley had informed him. Chance would be a fine thing, thought Doyle, given that both Browning and shoulder holster were in his suitcase so that Bodie didn't see them.

The rest of the drive was made in near silence, punctuated by occasional directions from Bodie.

“Turn here.”

Here turned out to be a country lane, narrower than the road they'd just come down, something Doyle hadn't thought possible. He had to slow the car down to a crawl just to make sure that he didn't lose either wing mirror to the stone walls lurking an inch to either side. After about a quarter of a mile the stone walls ended, so Doyle put his foot down on the accelerator just because he could.

He rather thought he heard Bodie yell something from the passenger seat about the suspension. Doyle couldn't hear him over the noise of the stones hitting the car.

At the end of the lane lay the cottage, picture perfect against the slate grey sky. Doyle pulled the car to a stop and climbed out. After five hours of driving, he needed to stretch his legs, and getting sandwiches at a petrol station didn't count. Doyle walked over to the edge of the cliff and looked down at the water swirling below. It looked cold. Maybe Mr IRA’s boat would capsize, he'd get hypothermia, and Doyle could go home without any unpleasantness occurring.

Since Doyle was never that lucky, he turned around to study the cottage. Good lines of sight meant that it would be very difficult for anyone to approach the building unaware, and there were no other buildings nearby, which meant no unseen observers. Just an awful lot of sheep milling in the fields nearby.

Sheep. Cowley had told him not to shoot the sheep. There was something about that comment that was important.

“Come on,” yelled Bodie, who’d unlocked the door and was standing gesturing at the boot of the car. Apparently he was incapable of taking the suitcases out by himself.

The cottage itself consisted of one large room downstairs and two bedrooms and a minuscule bathroom upstairs. Doyle put Bodie’s suitcase in the room with the double bed and his suitcase in the room with the two singles. Someone had left folded sheets on the bed. Doyle sighed. He was pretty sure he knew who was going to get to act as housekeeper.

Back downstairs Bodie had put the kettle on and was wandering around the room, examining the heavy wood furniture.

Doyle leant back against the Welsh dresser. “And now what?”

Bodie looked at his ridiculously expensive watch. “We wait.”

Doyle gestured at the telephone. “Any chance he might call first? Just to say he's popping over?”

“That's not how it works.”

“How would I know? It’s not like I’ve ever done this before.”

“My client turns up, we discuss what he needs and how much he wants to pay, and if we come to an agreement we discuss delivery. And in the meantime we have tea and biscuits.”

“So he’ll be here sometime in the next couple of hours?”

“Probably within 48 hours. I brought chocolate digestives,” Bodie added, as if that made everything all right.

Forty-eight hours meant someone would actually have to cook, and it wouldn't be Bodie. Doyle’d figured out fairly early on that Bodie ate out so much because otherwise he'd starve. A quick rummage through the kitchen cupboards revealed enough food to get them through the next couple of days. The selection reminded Doyle of the food you found in safe houses. Sensible, really, for anywhere that was unoccupied for any period of time.

Bodie had, along with the digestives, packed tea bags and milk. Doyle poured them both cups of tea and sat down.

“Now we’re here, mind telling me a bit more about this bloke we’re meeting?”

Bodie's expression became extremely shifty and he crammed another digestive in his mouth. Doyle waited patiently for him to finish eating. Eventually Bodie would have to answer.

“I did say it would probably be closer to 48 hours before my client turned up, didn’t I?”

“You did.”

“And as much as I enjoy tea and biscuits, I’m sure we could find something else to pass the time.” Bodie looked meaningfully at Doyle.

Ah. Not subtle, was Bodie. “A nice walk in the countryside?”

“Not happening. We're staying put. Inside the cottage.”

“Fine.” Doyle stood up and walked over to where the extremely elderly television sat beside a pile of equally elderly board games. “Snakes and ladders? Ludo?”

“I didn't,” said Bodie, “drag you all the way out to Wales so we could play Ludo.”

“No, you dragged me all the way into Wales so I could drive the car and you could meet a bloke. Who you are avoiding telling me about.”

Bodie smiled at him. He’d joined Doyle beside the television, almost close enough to kiss him. “I promise I'll tell you about him later. But we’re in the middle of the countryside, all alone, and there's a bed upstairs that's calling out to be...”

Doyle was beginning to wonder if any meeting had been planned at all. “You dragged me all the way to Wales for a dirty weekend?”

“Combination dirty weekend and business trip. Tax deductible that way. Besides, keeping me happy is in your job description.”

“You hired me to drive a car.”

“And whatever else took my fancy. And right now you take my fancy.”

Bodie wasn't going to tell him anything until he'd had his leg over, was he? Time to play Mata Hari Doyle once again. “So that means I can take off this ridiculous suit?” Without waiting for an answer, Doyle took off his jacket and tossed it onto a chair. He would never have admitted it, but he really quite liked the suit, which was why it wasn't lying on the floor. He licked his lips, undid the button of his trousers, and looked at Bodie.

Bodie marched over to the door and locked it. Then he returned to his chair, where he sat back, smiling. “That's only half the suit.”

Doyle started unbuttoning his shirt. “I thought we were going upstairs?”

“Turns out that I've always had a fantasy about taking advantage of the help up against an Aga.”

Doyle looked over at the stove which still had the kettle gently steaming on top of it. “I’ll pass. I don’t fancy second-degree burns.”

“I”ll use the tea towel to protect you.”

“Absolutely not. It's the bed or nothing.”

“There's a nice sheepskin rug in front of the fireplace.”

Arguing wasn't going to get him anywhere, so Doyle tossed his trousers on top of his jacket and sauntered up the stairs. All things considered, there were worse ways to spend an afternoon.

***

There was something about lying draped over Bodie that was oddly comforting, Doyle thought. Maybe it was how solid Bodie was? Doyle ran his hand down Bodie’s bare chest. Fun though this was, it wasn't why he was here. “And now you're going to tell me who we’re meeting with?”

Bodie stared up at the ceiling. “Ray, you're not going to like this.”

That was the first time Bodie had ever said his real name. For some reason it made Doyle feel queasy. “I'm not an idiot, Bodie. You're meeting with someone from the IRA, aren't you?”

Bodie continued staring at the ceiling. Doyle wondered if he was ever going to talk again. “That's not...” He rolled over to look at Doyle. “I don't want you to be angry with me.”

“Why would I be angry with you?” said Doyle as calmly as he could. “You sell guns. That's what you do. Doesn't matter that the things you sell will be used to kill people in cold blood just to further some psychopath’s political convictions. The important thing is that the money from this will keep you in fancy suits, and nice cars, and posh crumpet.”

Doyle could see from the expression on Bodie’s face that he'd hit a nerve. That speech might not have been the best way of persuading Bodie to back out of the deal.

“Like you're any better? You mean to tell me that you’ve never done anything you're ashamed of?”

Doyle got out of bed. “I've never arranged the wholesale murder of people, no.”

Bodie sat up. Doyle had always seen the genial side of him, with only a hint of what he had been in the past shining through. Now it was obvious. “No, you just lie and cheat and sell your body to get what you want. At least I'm honest about what's on the table.”

Really? “I sold. You bought. Can't see how that wasn't honest.” With that Doyle stormed out of the bedroom, slamming the door behind him, the effect slightly ruined by the fact he was wearing an unbuttoned shirt and nothing else. He grabbed a pair of jeans and his sneakers out of his suitcase, along with a couple of other things. A walk. A walk would give him time to calm down.

As luck would have it, the door to Bodie’s bedroom opened as Doyle started to go down the stairs. The two of them stared at each other.

“Ray,” said Bodie, “what I said, you need to know...”

Doyle didn't want to hear it right now. “I'm going for a walk. We can talk when I get back.”

“I don't think that's a good idea.”

“I think it's an excellent idea. You don’t need me to drive you anywhere and you’ve had your end away, and it’s not like you need me for anything else.”

Doyle didn’t give Bodie any time to reply. He charged down the stairs and wrestled the front door open. He had taken two steps when he heard the faintest of noises behind him. Adrenalin already pumping from the fight with Bodie, Doyle started to turn.

Which was when something hit him on the back of the head.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The end of is nigh! Thank you for bearing with me. I had a theory that posting as I wrote would be incentive to get the story written. I was wrong.


	9. In which a plan comes together

Bodie stood at the top of the stairs and watched Ray run down them. He couldn't believe how badly he'd mishandled the situation. He should have told Ray the truth on the drive up to Wales.

Fine. He'd tell him now.

Bodie ran down the stairs, but before he reached the front door, it flew open.

An unpleasantly familiar figure stood in the doorway, his arm around Ray's neck and a gun pointed at his head. Bodie could see blood trickling down Ray's face where he must have been hit. Ray didn't look afraid. Just irritated.

Bodie might have lived the life of a gentleman for the last few months, but some instincts didn't go away. He had his gun out and pointing at the two figures before he'd even had a chance to think about it.

“Krivas. This is a surprise.” Which it was, in a way. Bodie hadn't expected him for at least another three hours.

“Not who you expected?” Krivas might be ten years older and far more leathery than Bodie remembered, but he still was every inch the predator Bodie had worked with in Africa. The fact Krivas was wearing fatigues suggested he wasn't here purely to talk. No surprise there.

He could still get the two of them out of this situation. “I was expecting Sean Blackwood, actually.”

Ray’s eyes widened at that. Great. Yet another thing to explain to Ray once Krivas was dealt with. Assuming Krivas was dealt with.

Krivas smiled again. “Sean Blackwood? I am impressed. You've got quite the client list. Done very nicely for yourself.”

Bodie shrugged. “And how are you?”

Ray rolled his eyes.

Krivas ignored his question. “Imagine my surprise when I heard you hadn't died in Angola. Especially after my efforts to ensure you ended up in prison.”

The only reason Bodie'd found the strength to survive that prison was to spite Krivas. “You certainly made sure I knew who was responsible.”

Krivas pursed his lips in what might have been disappointment. “And yet here you are. I'd ask you how you got out, but I don't really care. This time I plan to make sure you die. Not as gloriously drawn out as I might hope for, but one can't have everything. And I'd like to be out of here before Sean arrives. He and I have a history.”

Bodie had heard. It was one of the reasons he was using Sean’s name. “So you think I'm just going to let you kill me?”

“If you put the gun down,” said Krivas, “your little boyfriend gets to go free.”

Krivas was lying. Krivas knew Bodie knew he was lying. The second Bodie put the gun down on the floor Ray would die, and Bodie would follow shortly thereafter. He'd always knew that there was a risk he'd die at Krivas’s hands, but at least it would be quick and relatively painless. What he hadn't intended, had actively avoided, was endangering anyone else. Even Ray. Especially Ray.

On the other hand, Ray was CI5. Intelligent. Well-trained. Good reflexes. And the longer they stood glaring at each other, the more likely Krivas was to shoot Ray just for the hell of it.

Bodie'd watched Krivas kill someone he’d cared for before, and he didn't intend for history to repeat itself. Even he died trying.

“You promise you'll let him go?”

Krivas smiled. It was not a nice smile. “Naturally.”

Ray opened his mouth to protest and Krivas tightened his grip on his neck. Any tighter and a bullet to the brain would be academic.

Bodie assessed the situation. He had a chance. Not a good one, but if Krivas had to choose just one of them to kill, he'd choose Bodie.

He stared at Ray, willing him to get the message to act. Then he slowly knelt down and just as he moved his gun hand to the ground, he rolled towards the heavy Welsh dresser. It wouldn't provide adequate coverage, but it might just provide enough distraction for Ray to act. He heard two bullets strike the stone wall of the cottage and then a heavy thud.

Bodie looked over to where Krivas and Ray had been standing. Krivas was lying on the floor, eyes wide open, looking stunned. Ray was handcuffing him. Bodie didn't think complimenting him on the speed and finesse with which he did it was going to win him any Brownie points.

Other people might have looked traumatized. Ray merely looked irritated. He pointed Krivas's gun at Bodie. “You're under arrest.”

Bodie stood up. Probably best not to ask him if he'd brought a second set of handcuffs. And where the hell had he been keeping the first set of handcuffs? They most certainly hadn’t been there earlier. He couldn't help grinning. He was alive. Ray was alive. Ok, Krivas was also alive, but he was incapacitated. “That seems a little ungrateful. I just saved your life.”

“You just saved my life? I think you'll find I'm the one who disarmed this nut on the floor. And my life wouldn't haven't been in danger in the first place if you hadn't been selling arms to a bunch of psychopathic madmen.”

“You work for CI5. People shoot at you all the time. You were probably much safer with me and Krivas than you are on a daily basis. Only one psychopath trying to kill you.”

“Only one? What about Sean Blackwood? Or Mad Boris? Or whoever the hell this one is?”

“Krivas. You probably already figured out that he's someone I worked with in Africa. The breakup of our business partnership was unpleasant. He tried to kill me and when that didn't work arranged for me to die in an African prison.”

“He did mention that.” Ray's eyes narrowed. “Wait. You know I work for CI5?”

Bodie nodded. The expression on Ray’s face was making him very nervous. “And Cowley knows I know, so...”

“Cowley knows that...” Ray put the gun down on the windowsill and pushed his hair back. “None of this makes any sense. It probably does to Cowley, but since he's not here...”

There was a screech of wheels outside. Ray glanced out of the window at the car, grimaced, and headed out the door. Judging from Ray’s unhurried pace Bodie assumed there was no reason to panic.

Bodie watched through the window as two men got out of the car. Both were tall, dark, and heavily armed. Cowley's men, presumably. He hoped Cowley had explained the situation to them. He really didn't want to get shot by someone who was meant to be an ally.

Ray stalked back into the cottage, followed by the two men. If the situation wasn't so fraught, Bodie would have enjoyed watching Ray’s transformation into his CI5 persona.

“I assume this one is Krivas?” asked the taller of the two. “Quite the popular fellow, he is.”

Krivas ignored him. Bodie had to hand it to Krivas. It wasn't everyone who could maintain their dignity while lying handcuffed on a sheepskin rug.

Ray just glared at the two agents and made shooing gestures. The two men stopped smiling. Bodie got the distinct impression that they considered Ray the scariest one in the room. They obviously hadn't read Krivas’s file properly.

“Careful,” Bodie muttered as they scooped Krivas up. He really didn't want Krivas on the loose again after all the scheming he'd done to trap him. “He's dangerous.”

“Aren't we all, darling?” said the taller of the two. The other one laughed and waved at Ray.

Ray pointedly closed the door behind Krivas and his escorts. “So,” he said, arms crossed, leaning against the front door. “I think there may be a few things you didn't tell me.” Ray had left the gun on the windowsill, which Bodie was choosing to view as a good sign.

“Six months ago Krivas found out I was still alive. Given the way we'd parted, I thought it might be a good idea to make sure that he wasn't going to finish off where he left off. I didn't want to spend the rest of my life hiding and I didn't know where he was, so I couldn't take preventative measures. So I baited a trap. Set myself up as an independent businessman and let Krivas come to me.”

“And how does Cowley fit into this?”

“Once I discovered that you were undercover...”

“Which was when?”

“... I contacted Cowley. Offered up my wide range of knowledge in return for him not interfering with my plan to trap Krivas. He was delighted to help.”

“So there never was any contract with the IRA?”

“No.”

“And you've known all along I was undercover?”

Bodie smiled. “Well, not all along...”

“And all of this was just to get to Krivas?”

“Precisely. Give him a lovely little package all tied up: the chance to see me dead or jail for the rest of my life? There was no way he could resist. You just added verisimilitude to the whole plan. It went off perfectly.”

Strangely enough, Bodie didn’t see the punch coming that time either.


	10. In which it turns out that this isn’t the last chapter

In fairness, given the circumstances of Doyle’s departure from the Met, it seemed unlikely that they would welcome him back with open arms. He probably shouldn't have called the Chief Commissioner a fucking useless excuse for a human being, but it wasn't untrue. But that did rather limit his post-CI5 job options. Maybe MI5? Doyle tried to remember who he'd pissed off at MI5 and just how likely it was to be career limiting.

Because he couldn't continue at CI5.

He understood the principle behind deploying a diverse range of resources at a problem. It wasn't the first time that he'd been sent to retrieve information in an unorthodox manner. But it was the first time he'd ended up feeling like the one who'd been seduced and used. He couldn't say he liked it.

And if he was going to quit, there was no time like the present.

Doyle made his way to Cowley's office. A new blonde was typing away merrily, instead of Rose. 

“Mr Cowley in?”

She looked up at him, narrowing her eyes. “He’s expecting you. Go right on in.”

Slightly confused, Doyle opened the office door and headed in.

Cowley looked far too pleased with himself. “Ah, 4-5, so glad you could join me.” He reached for his intercom. “Fiona, could you find 3-7 and send him in?”

3-7? Who was 3-7? Doyle dismissed that thought and launched into his prepared speech. “I'm giving notice. I can't do this any longer.”

Cowley’s forehead creased up slightly, but he didn't look particularly surprised. “I realise that you found your last assignment a bit draining, but this seems like an overreaction.”

“When you hired me, you said you wouldn't hold my past against me. Any of it.”

“And I haven't.”

“No, you just send me out on assignments to sleep with people. Would you do that to Jax? Or Cullen? Or Murphy?”

“So that's what this is about?”

Doyle thought about telling Cowley the entire truth. That he had never liked using people, but it was that much worse when it was the other way round. He thought about Bodie, and even when he thought Bodie was on the wrong side of things, how guilty he had felt using him, and when he’d discovered the shoe was on the other foot... “Yes.”

“You've never objected before. But if it bothers you that much, well, I can give those kinds of assignments to someone else. You'll be less likely to get them now, given that you'll be working with your new partner.”

“My new partner?”

The door to Cowley's office opened.

“Ah, right on cue. 3-7, come right in and take a seat.”

Bodie walked in. The black eye was new, but otherwise he looked exactly as he had the previous day. Immaculately groomed. Smug. As if absolutely nothing was wrong.

“You've met 3-7 already,” Cowley said unnecessarily. “He expressed an interest in joining CI5. His skill set would be useful, and the two of you work well together.”

Doyle felt anger surging up inside him, but did his best to ignore it. If he thought his employment prospects were bad now, they’d be even worse if he shot Cowley. Although come to think of it, there were several people that Cowley had annoyed so much that shooting him might be a selling point... He suppressed that thought.

“It wouldn't work. Besides I'm quitting.”

Bodie raised an eyebrow, but said nothing.

“You get to quit when I tell you you can.”

Doyle knew the futility of arguing with Cowley, so he just stood up, placed his badge and gun on Cowley's desk and strode out. He didn't look at Bodie.

By the time he got to the car park, he'd remembered that quitting CI5 meant he no longer had a car. He sighed and started walking.

***

Doyle'd almost made it to the tube station when he heard the screech of brakes behind him and the slam of a car door. He resisted the urge to turn around and kept on going.

“You've developed a bad habit of storming out on me.”

Doyle didn't need to look to know Bodie was right behind him. He was not in the mood for this. He was never going to be in the mood for this, but Bodie, as he had shown in a number of different ways, always got what he wanted. And if what he wanted was a conversation with Doyle, it was best to get it over with. Doyle stopped and turned around. “I don't think we have anything to say to each other.”

“I think we do. To start with, you owe me an apology for stealing my car and stranding me in Wales. I had to hitch a lift with Keene and Murphy. Krivas spent the whole trip back trying to kill me.”

Really? Everything had happened in the last couple of weeks and all he cared about was his car? Doyle counted to three and fixed a non-committal expression on his face. “I left your car outside your flat and the keys in your flat.” Doyle looked over to where the car in question was haphazardly parked. “You obviously found them.”

Bodie took a step towards him. Doyle was uncomfortably reminded of their first meeting. “You don't care that Krivas was trying to kill me? Murphy said it was worse than traveling with three-year olds.”

“He didn't succeed.” Don't ask questions, just get the conversation over and done with. “What's Cowley planning to do with Krivas?” Doyle, that was a question.

Bodie smiled. “It turns out that Krivas is wanted by the government of several different countries, none of which is particularly known for the comfort of their prisons. And since Krivas is not a British citizen, there's no awkwardness in extraditing him to one of those countries in return for a favour to be named later.”

“Cowley must be delighted.” Technically not a question.

“He is. I'm his blue-eyed boy.”

Of course you are. Just say goodbye, Doyle. “Glad to hear everything turned out for you. Good luck working for Cowley. Don't drink the tea from the machine in the VIP room. We think it's part of a government experiment testing some kind of toxin.”

“I meant what I said, you know.”

Doyle must have looked blank, because Bodie got a look of thorough exasperation on his face. “That we’d make a good team.”

“You never said that.”

“I definitely thought it.”

Doyle rolled his eyes and moved to go.

“I want to be your partner.”

“Tough. I don't work for CI5 any more.”

“That's not what Cowley said.” Bodie took another step closer. Doyle clenched his fists but held his ground. “Anyway I didn't mean working for CI5.”

Wait, what? 

“Although this is probably not a conversation best had in public.” Bodie put his arm around Doyle’s shoulders and dragged him over to the car. Doyle tried not to lean into Bodie’s chest. “In.”

Doyle got in.


	11. In which everything is finally wrapped up

Doyle was not surprised when the car drew up in front of Bodie’s flat. Blue-eyed boy or not, there were some conversations you did not want to have anywhere in Cowley's vicinity. He trusted that Bodie was still having the flat swept for bugs on a regular basis.

He'd spent the entire journey trying to figure out what Bodie was talking about when he'd said he wanted to be his partner. He knew what it sounded like, but that didn't make any sense. He’d worked for the man. Bodie was a lone wolf. He didn't have attachments. 

Some packing crates had appeared in the corner of Bodie’s living room. Doyle, who was never not nosy, walked over to them to look inside. They were mostly empty, although a number of the pictures from Bodie’s study were in there.

“Cowley doesn't feel the flat is secure enough,” said Bodie. “So I'm moving.” He sat down on the sofa, glass of whisky in hand. “I'll have to buy furniture. Never owned furniture before.”

Doyle walked over to the window and looked out. There was no one in the well-manicured square across the road. He wondered how Bodie would cope with what CI5 deemed suitable housing after living here. “You don't need to do that. Accommodations furnishes our flats.”

“Buying my own. Subject to Cowley’s approval, mind you, and the best security system money can buy. Keene and Murphy said Accommodations had funny ideas about flats.”

You could say that again, thought Doyle, thinking about the plumbing of his present abode. Former abode, now. “They’re not that bad. Mostly the problem is the neighbours.”

“So I suppose you'll be looking for a new place to live then, now that you've left CI5. Course, most landlords want their tenants to have paying jobs. You got anything lined up?”

Doyle didn't bother replying. Bodie had to come to the point sometime. Didn't he?

“I'll take that as a no. So you'd need an understanding landlord. Maybe one who’d be willing to accept rent in kind.”

And we were back to this. Well, Doyle was no longer undercover and he didn't have to take any of Bodie’s barbs anymore. He turned and took two steps towards the front door.

Bodie dropped his whisky on the coffee table and threw himself in front of the door. “Easy, sunshine. You really are sensitive to jokes about...” He broke off his sentence in an oddly unBodielike attempt at discretion.

“Wouldn't you be?”

There was a long pause as Bodie thought about this. Doyle could see his mental machinations as he put two and two together and came up with a theory about Doyle’s previous line of work. “Oh. I didn't mean... that is, I didn't know that... Sod it, what I'm trying to say is that I've got a spare room in my new place, and if you need a place to live, you're welcome to it.”

Well, that was unexpected. Bodie was clearly feeling guilty about recent events, as well he should. If it wasn't for Bodie, Doyle wouldn't be unemployed and homeless. But accepting the offer would be a huge mistake. Doyle opened his mouth to say exactly that. 

“So whereabouts is the new place?”

Bodie rubbed his hands together. “Not far from here. Downstairs neighbour is a diplomat, so they've already got all sorts of security devices set up. You'd have your own bathroom.”

Doyle contemplated the fact that Bodie thought having his own bathroom was a strong argument.

“There’d be no strings attached. You could just live there until you'd found yourself a new job. Or a new place. Although,” Bodie continued, “if you'd like to take on the cooking and washing dishes to show your gratitude, I wouldn't say no.”

Class A marksman, black belt in two martial arts, and a dab hand with lockpicks, and it turned out Doyle’s skills only made him suitable to be a glorified housekeeper. No wonder the female agents got irritated when they were told to make the tea.

“And if you're concerned about what Cowley’d think, don't be. He's fine with you living with me.”

Doyle tried to imagine that conversation and failed. But the fact that Crowley was fine with it implied that Cowley wasn't done with him yet. He sighed. Fine, then he was only semi-unemployed. And given Cowley’s tenacious nature, changing his name or faking his own death wasn't going to cut it. Maybe joining the French foreign legion?

The loud crackle of an RT interrupted Doyle’s thoughts. He reached down to grab it and then realised that he no longer had one. Bodie was the one being summoned.

Bodie grimaced at the RT. “Sorry sunshine, duty calls. Promise you’ll still be here when I get back?”

Why not? Doyle had nowhere else to go. And he still hadn’t figured out Bodie’s comment about partners. 

***

Doyle’s belongings arrived later that day, packed up by unknown hands. Normally agents were expected to do their own packing (“For security reasons,” said Cowley, although Doyle was pretty sure it was to save money) but in cases where agents had died or were incapacitated, other agents were expected to do the work. Apparently quitting counted as incapacitated. Doyle had always been bothered by the thought of other people going through his belongings after his inevitable death, so he'd always kept the embarrassing personal items to a minimum. 

The sight of his belongings sitting in a corner of Bodie’s living room underlined the precariousness of his current situation to Doyle. No job, no car, the roof over his head contingent on Bodie’s goodwill. Doyle really needed to figure out what he was doing with the rest of his life. 

Instead he’d gone for a leisurely shop at Tesco and tried to puzzle out what precisely Bodie was playing at. The cauliflowers failed to offer much insight. The obvious solution was to ask Bodie, but Doyle wasn’t sure he wanted an honest answer. He didn’t know which scared him more: that Bodie had meant what he said or that Bodie was just playing with him.

“I’m just being a coward,” he told the potatoes.

Doyle’d had serious relationships before, some real and some in the line of duty. The real relationships fizzled out sooner or later because, face it, even if he found someone who was willing to cope with his rotten working hours and the fact he couldn’t guarantee he’d still be alive by the next date, he was still sleeping with other people as part of his job. 

He went back to Bodie’s flat where he savagely chopped up carrots and potatoes and tried not to think about anything.

***

Bodie turned up several hours after Doyle’s boxes, slightly battered and bruised, but looking smug, so Doyle assumed whatever he’d been doing at CI5 had gone well. Bodie didn’t say. Doyle didn’t ask. 

After dinner, Bodie poured them both brandies. 

“Doyle,” said Bodie, “why do you think I’m working for CI5?”

Doyle shrugged. “You didn’t want to run guns any more and the job fit your skill set? It’s certainly not for the money,” he added, thinking of his current bank balance.

“Because, and this may sound odd, I wanted to keep working with you. Yes, you were lying to me, but when we were in the cottage with Krivas you could read what I was going to do. You don’t get that very often with anyone.”

“Except I’m not working for CI5 any more,” Doyle felt obliged to point out.

“Cowley would have you back in a heartbeat.”

Comprehension dawned on Doyle. “So this is what this is about? Cowley wants me to come back and he’s making you do his dirty work? He really will use any means possible to achieve his goals.”

Bodie drummed his fingers against the side of his chair. It was, Doyle knew, a sign of exasperation. “You really are a prickly sod, aren’t you? You’re good at the job, sunshine. One of the best. Cowley needs you.”

“That’s not the point. I can’t...” Force yourself to say it, Doyle. “I can’t do the things he wants me to do any longer. He wants me to risk my life for the greater good? Fine. But I can’t go around sleeping with people just to get them to dance to Cowley’s tune.”

“Is the problem the sex or the fact they trust you?”

Doyle shook his head. “The trusting, I guess.”

“That’s not going to be a problem. Cowley won’t be making you do that anymore.”

“Then you don’t know Cowley very well.”

Bodie smiled. “We negotiated. He wants you back and he’s a realist. He was willing to make a few concessions to get what he wants.”

“And what’s in it for you?”

Bodie’s smile grew even wider as he stood up. “I told you. I want you as a partner. And not just at work.” He took one step towards Doyle. “We’re good together. You know this.” Another step. “Yes, you have a hair trigger temper and no apparent sense of tact or discretion, but no-one’s perfect.” He leaned in. “So what do you say?” And then he kissed Doyle.

Doyle’s brain promptly stopped working. Bodie had kissed him once or twice before, but those kisses had been aggressive, intended purely to establish dominance. This kiss though... This kiss was affectionate. Gentle. And deeply confusing.

Doyle took a step back. “Bodie, what are you doing?”

“Ray, I like you, which is rare for me. And I trust you, which is rarer. I want to carry on what we’ve been doing. Just with a little less lying. But if you’re not interested, just say so. We can have a purely professional relationship.” He ran his thumb down the side of Doyle’s face. “So tell me: do you want this?”

Of course Doyle wanted this. Bodie might be an arrogant pig-headed bastard with a dubious sense of ethics and a history of poor decisions but, Doyle realized with a start of surprise, he wanted Bodie to be his arrogant pig-headed bastard. 

Assuming they didn’t kill each other first. “And Cowley?”

“No three ways.”

And wasn’t that a thought to get your libido to settle down? “If I come back to CI5,” and Doyle emphasized the  _ if _ , “we don’t get to be together. Cowley has a non-fraternization policy.”

“Which, if what I hear about you and the secretaries is true, is more observed in the breach. But you don’t need to worry about it. I asked Cowley to exempt me from it. It’s in my contract.”

Doyle blushed. He couldn’t help it. He should have been outraged by the fact that Cowley was apparently willing to categorize him as a perk of the job along with a full pension and dental care, but instead he found himself feeling... what? 

Hope. He was feeling hope.

Bodie was making it possible for the two of them to have a relationship. A relationship. With a man. Countenanced by Cowley. He could have both Bodie and CI5. It wasn’t going to be easy, but it was going to be possible.

“Are you going to faint? Because if you are, you might want to lie down.” Bodie sounded genuinely concerned. “The sofa’s right over there. Although it’s a bit uncomfortable. Or my bedroom if you’d prefer. Not that I’m hinting at anything, mind you, I just thought...”

Good god. Bodie was rambling. He was, Doyle suddenly realized, nervous about how Doyle was going to respond. He’d actually told Cowley that he wanted Doyle? Doyle wished he’d seen that. Or maybe not. Some things should be left private between a man’s boss and his... Partner. He’d call Bodie his partner for now, and see how things proceeded.

“...or I could see if...”

Was Bodie still rambling? Time to put him out of his misery. “Not your bedroom.” 

“Fine.” Did Bodie’s face just fall?

“Our bedroom.”

“Our bedroom?”

Doyle sighed. It was a good thing Bodie was tall, dark, and beautiful, if he was going to be this slow on the uptake.

“Wait, you mean...? You’re willing to... You’re happy to...?” 

Doyle sighed again. If he didn’t take decisive action, Bodie was obviously going to babble on all day. “You can consider me one of the perks of your new job but if I find out you’re lying about Cowley, there’ll be trouble.”

And then Doyle kissed Bodie. Hard, just to make sure Bodie understood that it was an equal partnership and he wasn’t going to have it all his own way. And then gently, just because he could.

As he led Bodie into the bedroom, he wondered if Cowley’s plan all along had been to distract him from the secretaries.

That would be typical of the jammy bastard.


End file.
